“I’ll bet,” I murmur, not opening my now fully closed eyes.
“Wanna move this party to the bedroom?”
“Okay.”
But that doesn’t happen. We fall asleep on the couch, wrapped up in each other.
Eventually, we make it to the bed. There are more blow jobs, and at one point David gets bold enough to slip a finger between my ass cheeks, penetrating me with the tip. The sensation is unfamiliar but not unpleasant. A slight burn that gradually morphs into a kind of pleasure I’ve never felt before.
After a few minutes, he starts to slowly work it in further, even adding another finger to the mix. My thigh muscles tremble and I push against him, wanting more. But no matter how much I beg him, he won’t fuck me.
“Not yet,” he says. Again. “You’re not ready to bottom. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Then let me fuck you,” I demand.
He flips over on his stomach so fast I burst out laughing. That’s another thing I didn’t expect. Sex with David isn’t just hot. It’s hysterical. We laugh as much as we moan. There’s a comfort level between us that five years apart hasn’t tempered. It makes the sex easy. Fun. Like riding a bike, but with orgasms.
I mimic how he touched me, sliding a finger down his crease, then stop. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing. And just like he doesn’t want to hurt me, I don’t want to hurt him. “You’re going to have to talk me through this.”
“There’s lube in the top drawer of the nightstand.” He sticks his ass up in the air and wiggles it temptingly. As if I need any additional enticement to tap that. “And condoms.”
I spend the next half hour learning how David likes to be fucked. First with one finger, then two. Finding his prostate, watching his face contort and hearing his sexy whimpers and moans. He grinds his ass against my probing finger, trying to fuck it, and pride swells my chest. Whatever I’m doing, I must be doing it right.
Then, finally, it’s my dick inside him, pushing past the tight ring of muscle and burying myself in that fine ass of his. Fuck, it’s tight. The pressure is beyond anything I’ve ever felt before. He’s like a hot, wet vise, squeezing me into next week.
It’ll be a miracle if I last more than a few strokes. But I’m going to give it the old college try.
I bend down, covering his body with mine, and start to move.
“Wait.” The word is like a pinprick to my stupid pride. Maybe I’m not so great at this after all. “Flip me over. I wanna look at you when you’re fucking me.”
Just like that, my pride is restored. He wants to watch me. Gaze into my eyes while I make love to him. Because that’s what I’ll be doing. Making love. This is no fast, forgettable fuck for me. And I’m starting to think maybe it’s not for him, either. “Uh, yeah. I’d like that, too.”
We switch positions so he’s on his back with me looming above him, braced on my palms, one on either side of his head. “You ready?”
He nods, his sex-mussed hair drooping into his eyes. He’s so goddamn beautiful, helpless underneath me, his cheeks flushed and his eyes glassy with undisguised lust. “I’ve been ready since the first time I saw you.”
Holy hell. He talks as pretty as he looks. If I’m not back inside him in the next thirty seconds, I might die. I grab my iron-hard cock and position myself at his entrance. “Sorry it took me so long to catch up.”
“Better late than never,” he says, a bemused smile curving the corners of his full, kissable lips. It takes me a second to get the joke. Then I remember. It’s the same thing I said to him when I asked him out.
“Told you so.” The tip of my dick nudges his hole.
“Come on, ballet boy. Do it.”
I ease in. Just the head at first, then I’m all the way in, teasing him with slow, easy strokes.
“Faster,” he pleads, wrapping his legs around my back and sneaking a hand between us to search for his cock.
I slap his hand away. “Nice try, but I don’t need any help. I’m making you come.”
“Then do it already.”
I curl my fingers around his shaft and give it a quick, hard pump just as I thrust back into him. He’s right. It’s better this way. Face to face, I get the full force of his expressions. The way he bites his lip to keep from crying out. The strain on his handsome features. The sweat dampening his brow.
He’s close, and so am I. Just like when he blew me on the couch, I want to hold off my release, but that would be like asking the Patriots not to win the Super Bowl.
My orgasm is relentless. It rips through me, red-hot and pulsing, like a series of power surges, and I empty myself inside him, still jerking him off.
